And so today’s moment of happiness despite the news.
It’s amazing, the effect strangers can have on you, especially those strangers that are only there for a short time, and then they’re gone.
The other night, I went downstairs to the AllWriters’ classroom to paint. The classroom has been quiet and dark since I finished my last class before Christmas break on the 20th. Every time I’ve walked through the classroom, either to go through the garage to get to my car, or to take the dog out, I’ve said quietly, “Keep resting. Keep resting.” The room has felt quiet and peaceful, but it also feels like it’s waiting.
So I went downstairs to do an unusual activity in it. I do paint – though not often. I started, years and years ago, when someone challenged me to paint a self-portrait. I accepted the challenge, but was horrified. I couldn’t paint. I couldn’t draw. Well, at least, that’s what I was told, and so I didn’t think I could. After getting this challenge, Michael and I were walking past the window of an antique store, and there was a Styrofoam head in the window, like what wigs are displayed on. I grabbed Michael’s hand, yelled, “That’s it!” and we ran inside so I could buy the head. I painted on it, and I didn’t have to worry about how to make a face, because the face was already there. I enjoyed it so much, I went on to paint two more Styrofoam heads, a glass head, and then I bought a six-foot mannequin, and I painted her. She appears on the cover of my short story collection, Oddities & Endings. There are several other mannequins and mannequin parts as well.
When I went to the Oregon coast for the first time, I couldn’t bring a mannequin, obviously. But I felt compelled to paint, as well as to write. So I stopped in an art store and bought my first sketchpad, and I filled it during my time there. My favorite of those is framed and hangs in the stairwell leading up to the second floor. I painted every time I went to Oregon, and also when I went to Maine and to La Crosse, Wisconsin. My canvases line that stairwell. I am running out of room. Two canvases are on the wall that lines the stairwell from the second to third floor.
When I went to Oregon this year, the women who own the little house made sure my paints were out and ready. They store them for me in their attic, and they provide me with an old table to work on. Last year, they also provided a keyboard so I could practice the piano, and they provided it this year too. But I didn’t touch the paints or the keyboard this year. I was just too depleted. I didn’t think I would write either, but I should have known better. I wrote, and I’m still working on that book. I started a second book while I was there as well. One is a novel; one is a poetry collection.
But on this day, two evenings ago, I went down to paint at home. I recently signed a contract for my 16th book, a poetry collection called Let Me Tell You; Let Me Sing. I’m supposed to come up with an idea for a cover, and I decided I would try to paint it myself. I can see what I want in my head. My previous covers have been done by friends and students who are artists. Michael’s photography is on my covers, and so is mine. But with this being a poetry book, and the title being in the first person – I wanted to see if I could paint the cover.
Will I show you when it’s done? We’ll see how it turns out first. I’m not feeling a lot of confidence. I still hear that voice that tells me I can’t do art.
The AllWriters’ classroom is one of my favorite places in the world. Everything in it has a story, holds a meaning, has a purpose. I felt it settle around me, a comfort, as I layered the table in paper towels and laid out my canvas. And then I started, trying to get what’s in my head onto the canvas. I laughed to myself as I thought I could call the painting, Let Me Tell You; Let Me Paint.
A lot of my life has been about “Let me!”
As I worked away, I realized that the quiet of the classroom wasn’t completely quiet. I could hear a voice, a male voice. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but the voice was soft and rich and compelling. I thought maybe someone was walking past with their cell phone, but the voice didn’t leave. It stayed steady.
I finally walked around the table so I could glance out the windows. Right outside my door, a man stood next to my Little Free Library. He had a book opened in his hands. And he was reading out loud.
I couldn’t tell if he was reading to someone, maybe via Bluetooth, or if he was reading to himself. But he had on a winter jacket. The hood was up, and I could also see the fringe of a knit hat under the hood. I don’t use in-the-ear headphones, I can’t stand the feel, so I don’t know if these would work under that many layers. But he kept on reading.
As I painted, I listened. I couldn’t make out the words, but his voice flowed in a rhythm that was at once soothing and sincere.
He stayed for at least a half-hour.
Maybe he was homeless, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was reading to someone, maybe he wasn’t. He had to be aware of me in the classroom; the lights were all on and spilling out into the street, and I walked by the windows several times to get from one side of the canvas to the other.
Maybe he was reading to himself. Maybe he was reading to me.
All I know is that while I worked there, I was all alone, but I wasn’t. And as he read, he wasn’t alone either, as he stood by my door, under the outside light.
Eventually, his voice stopped. I was putting the last strokes onto what was going to be accomplished that night. I straightened and stretched my back, then walked to the windows. He was gone.
I went outside and looked in the Little Free Library. Someone had recently wiped out the entire bottom shelf, so there wasn’t much in there. I hoped whoever did was seeking to get gifts for people that couldn’t otherwise be afforded. From what I remember being in there, nothing was missing. I don’t think he took what he was reading with him.
But for a while this holiday, he was reading with someone, and even though I couldn’t hear the words, I shared his story. And for a while this holiday, I was painting an idea onto a canvas in an empty classroom, but it wasn’t empty at all.
When I’m done writing this, and posting it, I will be going back down to paint some more. Of course I hope he’ll be back. But I know it’s not likely.
I’ll be listening though.
And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.
